


asterism

by curiositykilled



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:54:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23805652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: Soft moments between three tired aliens.
Relationships: Allura/Shiro/Ulaz (Voltron)
Kudos: 1





	1. support

Away missions are always rough. Peace is a relative term, and even now, billions of lives depend on their ability to protect them — something that’s made a lot harder when the various pieces of Voltron are spread across the universe. Knowing that, knowing that people are bound to notice when half the team’s on Ha’xilion and the other half is split between Beta Gi and Uirea, invariably adds a few extra tons of stress to an already full load. If something were to happen — if any of them were to be attacked — the risk to each of them was that much higher. Over the years, they’ve grown together into a seamless unit. Take that away, and suddenly those unbreakable defenses are fractured, fault lines running through them.  
More than that, they’re family by now. No amount of video calls or rambling midday messages can take the place of sampling Hunk’s latest experiments together or collapsing into a heap in the common room at the end of the day. When they’re missing from each other, he can feel it like pieces of himself are missing. They tug on him like anchors in his chest, pulling him across the universe.  
It’s worse at times like this.  
The decontamination takes an eternity. He knows it takes exactly thirteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds, can hear the tick of Atlas’ internal clocks as the dryers kick in, but it feels like he’s been stuck here for that many hours. Normally, he almost enjoys the process. It’s a kind of reprieve from the everyday, a pause where no one can ask anything of him — including himself. The warm air, the rhythmic wash and dry cycle is almost meditative. Most days.  
Today, he can’t help shifting his weight back and forth between his feet, fingers twitching an allegro beat into his palm. ‘It’s fine, it’s fine’ he silently chants at the same time as he mutters ‘go, go, go’ at the unlistening machines. He could be halfway across the ship by now, even if he didn’t give Atlas a little nudge to speed his path. Instead, he’s stuck waiting for another eighteen seconds as the chamber finally whines down and sets about releasing the seals.  
He’s through the doors before they’re halfway open. His pace isn’t a run, technically. That would be undignified and risk setting off a ship-wide panic: when the Black Paladin runs, most people don’t want to stick around to find out why. He settles for a brisk walk, purposeful. No one stops him on the way, though he’s not sure if that’s because they know better or because Atlas keeps directing him down side corridors with little flashes of the floor lights. He doesn’t care to take the time to find out.  
At last, after seven more minutes of hard walking, he reaches them.  
The door hushes open before he has raised a hand to command it, but he slows his steps enough that he’s quiet when he enters. There’s no beeping like a hospital room on Earth, but there’s that same reverent hush he remembers from far too many days waking up in one of their beds. His footsteps fall soft on the metal floor, and they’re still the loudest sound in the stillness.  
The first thing he notices, inanely, is that that’s his shirt. Allura lies on her back, one hand folded loosely over the thick grey sweater. She looks smaller than she should, like when she shrinks down to fit through tight spaces or just to mess around. He knows she isn’t really, is sure that her shapeshifting doesn’t hold for things like this. As bulky as his sweater is, the sleeves even hit her wrists at the right spot. It’s just the wanness to her face, the dark circles under her closed eyes. She looks too delicate, almost brittle, in the soft blue light of the room.  
There’s a quiet rustle.  
“Takashi. You have returned.”  
Ulaz stirs just enough to straighten up toward Shiro but not enough to dislodge Allura’s hand where it holds tight to his own. He’d known he’d be here — had seen his familiar form contorted into the bedside chair when he’d first entered — and yet his soft voice, hoarse with sleep, nearly sets Shiro to tears.  
Pulling himself together, Shiro skirts the edge of the bed to come to his side. Immediately, Ulaz reaches out with his free hand and curls it gently around Shiro’s. Leaning down, Shiro presses their foreheads together and is rewarded with a low rumble. It thrums up through Ulaz, humming through his bones. It’s a grounding thing, a gentle symbol of this home they’ve built together.  
“How is she?” Shiro asks, soft, when they separate.  
It isn’t by much: even with proof that both of them are alive before him, he’s loath to step any further away than he has to. Now, he stands close enough that Ulaz slips his arm around Shiro’s waist and draws him into his side.  
“Healing,” Ulaz says. “She has slept most of the cycle but was lucid when she woke. She will be recovered in a few quintants.”  
Watching Allura’s chest rise and fall beneath the familiar sweater, Shiro bites back regret and helplessness. Three quintants. He could have been here, could have stepped in the way or helped her or —  
Ulaz’s hand tightens against his hip.  
“Takashi,” he says. “This was not your fault.”  
“I didn’t—” he starts, but Ulaz’s long fingers dig a little into his side in warning.  
“Allura made the decision to cover the civilians,” Ulaz says. “She saved their lives. She did what was right. If you had been there, you would also be laying in one of these beds — or she would have pushed you from harm. Do not dishonor her bravery with self-doubt.”  
Shiro subsides, lips thinning. He likes that both his partners are strong, admires the courage and honor that propels them — but he hates when those very things are what get them hurt. Sighing, he leans a little more heavily into Ulaz’s side. Ulaz takes the weight easily, shifting his arm to more fully encircle Shiro’s waist and interlace their fingers.  
“What’s with the sweater?” Shiro asks.  
There’s a pause, and when he glances down, Ulaz’s ears are twitching with something like uncertainty.   
“It carries your scent,” Ulaz explains, a little sheepish. “I thought it might – bring some comfort. To both of us.”  
Fondness rises up in Shiro’s chest, a heavy affection. He leans down, presses a kiss to the top of Ulaz’s head.  
“You should get some rest,” he says as he straightens. “I’ll watch over you two.”  
There’s a little reshuffling as they pull over a second chair, but within minutes of curling up in it, Ulaz is sound asleep. His head rests against the armrest in what Shiro can’t imagine is a comfortable position, his lips parted just enough for the tips of his sharp canines to peek out. Shiro runs a hand over his white crest, smoothing the ruffled hair back down. At his other side, a quiet noise makes him look over.  
Allura’s eyes are parted, drowsy blue slits.  
“’kashi?” she mumbles.  
“Shh,” he soothes. “I’ve got you.”  
He presses a kiss to the back of her hand, and she smiles as her eyes slide shut. Even as her breathing evens back out, her hand remains tight on his. Settling back, Shiro feels his heart settle into an easier rhythm once more. They’re alive. They’re together. The rest they can handle in the morning.


	2. support

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follow-up to 'support'

The benefit to being on light duty is that she gets more time with her boys, as Lance is wont to call them. Shiro had been resigned to returning to his mission as soon as Allura was released from the infirmary, but Hunk and Pidge had shut down that thought immediately. The Blades have been working on stabilizing the city below after the earthquake, and Keith had banned any of the trio from trying to come down and assist.

She'd chafe at the coddling but well, this is kind of nice.

Ulaz's claws scrape gentle against her scalp as he combs through her hair, enough to nearly send her to sleep. In her own hands, Shiro's hair is silky and loose. It's grown out in the phoebs he's been away, turned long enough to be bunned up or braided. Now, she weaves loose plaits into it and shakes them out with her fingertips before starting over. There's some movie playing on the projected screen, but she lost track of it some time ago in favor of the lazy comfort of being sandwiched between the two of them. Ulaz's legs bracket her shoulders, Shiro a warm weight against her. She shakes his hair loose again and combs her fingers back through the crown of his hair. He hums in pleasure, sagging a little against him.

"I should get it cut," he remarks.

Behind her, Ulaz gives a little noise of disagreement. His fingers are working little plaits into her hair, delicate things that interlace and create what feels like a fine net over top her loose locks. She still prefers his handiwork over any royal dresser when it comes to formal events; deca-phoebs of braiding each other’s hair in the Blades has given him a deftness and creativity that surpasses most dressers she’s worked with.

"You can always braid it out of the way," Allura offers.

"Imitating Kolivan?" Shiro snorts.

Ulaz's hands still in her hair, and Allura tilts her head back to grin up at him.

"What, not into a little role play anymore?" she teases.

A flush rises violet in his pale cheeks, ears twisting back against the sides of his head. She hears Shiro choke at her words and straightens, pleased with herself.

"Only if you wish me to take on Coran's role," Ulaz retorts and Allura freezes.

Horror stops her from considering that further, and she firmly shuts down the thought. Before her, Shiro's shoulders have hitched up with laughter, and she pokes him in the side in retaliation.

"Laugh all you want, but this means I'll be filling in as Samuel," she warns.

He groans immediately, twisting around to shoot her a betrayed look.

"You started it," she says with a shrug.

"Absolutely did not," he retorts.

"Shiro is correct, Princess," Ulaz adds. "You were the instigator."

Sighing dramatically, she slumps into Ulaz's leg and lays a hand over her chest. A smile quirks up the corners of Shiro’s lips even as he narrows his eyes at her faux dramatics.

"Teaming up against me while I'm injured?" she whines. "Such cruel betrayal."

Ulaz snorts.

“Apologies,” he replies, dry as dust. “Would you prefer we carried you on a litter and hand fed you delicacies?”

“That would be a good start,” Allura replies, tilting her head as if in consideration.

Shiro laughs.

“Well, we can make one of those happen,” he says. “Snack break?”

He turns around with eyebrows raised, and Allura acquiesces readily, pushing herself to her feet. Both of them leap to help her up, as if she’s some newborn who can’t hold her own weight.

“We really can carry you,” Shiro says, warm hand supporting her by the elbow.

Allura rolls her eyes.

“I am not an invalid,” she retorts.

“You have been on bed rest for the past quintants,” Ulaz points out. “Carrying you is no burden.”

“I am fine,” she says.

The universe decides to prove her wrong about five ticks later when she heads toward the door and her legs wobble and start to buckle. Before she can even react, they’ve both lunged. Scowling, she huffs out a breath.

“Oh for the — you’re not carrying me,” she says

“At least let us help,” Shiro coaxes. “Just for the walk down.”

As much as she resents being treated like a child, the entreaty in his eyes is too gentle and sincere to refuse. And, even if she’s only honest to herself, she isn’t sure she can make it all the way to the kitchen on her own. At least this way she doesn’t have to suffer the indignity of her legs giving out in the middle of the corridor.

They settle with her arms around Ulaz’s waist and Shiro’s shoulders, and their arms hovering at her lower back. She knows, from experiences both good and bad, that either of them could carry her on their own, but they touch her now as if she’s something fragile, liable to break at too firm a grip. Frustration bubbles up in her chest, both at their fussing and at her own weakness. When they reach the kitchen, Shiro helps her onto a stool while Ulaz turns to the task of finding snacks.

“I don’t need coddled,” Allura grumbles.

Leaning on the counter beside her, Shiro gives a little smile, equal parts sympathy and amusement. He reaches out to take her hand, his thumbtip brushing gentle over her knuckles.

“Remember when I fought Sendak the last time?” he asks.

The thought alone is enough to make Allura nearly shudder. She wishes she didn’t remember it, that the moment wasn’t seared into her memory like a brand. Fear was a constant companion during the war – fear that they weren’t enough, that the universe would fall to ruin no matter how hard they tried, fear that one of them would die or be too gravely injured to go on — but none had compared to that visceral horror. Being pinned down and helpless while Shiro alone battled the Galra commander had been a nightmare on its own, but when the dust had cleared enough for her to see Shiro sway, stumble, and collapse, her heart had stopped.

“I couldn’t move a centimeter without one of you asking if I was okay for movements afterwards,” Shiro says.

That, Allura can reluctantly admit, was probably true. They hadn’t been together yet at that point, but she and Ulaz had wound up hovering at Shiro’s bedside in a near-constant vigil. Shoulders loosening, she leans her cheek on her free hand.

“This is our turn to take care of you,” Shiro says.

It’s very hard to be frustrated with him when he looks at her so tenderly, but Allura makes a point of rolling her eyes and huffing out her breath anyway. She doesn’t want to set any new precedent here where they think they can always win just by banking on Shiro’s pretty eyes. 

“Fine,” she relents, “but only this once.”

“If that’s a promise you aren’t going to get hurt again, then I’ll take it,” Shiro teases.

She can’t help snorting a little at that, a smile pulling up her lips and earlier irritation forgotten. Ulaz returns then, sliding a bowl onto the counter before them along with three spoons. She turns, reaching up to draw him down close enough that she can press their foreheads together and give him a little nuzzle. Her finger hooks back at the base of his jaw to give a gentle scritch in the short fur there, and he presses into the touch with a low purr. 

“Thank you for looking after me,” she says. “Even when I’m being difficult.”

On her other side, Shiro gives her hand a gentle squeeze, and Ulaz pulls away just enough to lean back in and press a kiss to the top of her head. When he pulls back, there is a soft smile on his lips, unbearably fond.

“It is always a pleasure and a privilege,” he assures her.

He slides onto the stool beside her, positioned so that one long arm can loop around her waist while the other is left free to pick up a spoon and nudge the bowl closer to the three of them. Twirling her own spoon through her fingers, Allura eyes the bowl curiously.

“What is it?” she asks.

When she first met the paladins, she’d been convinced they were the pickiest eaters she’d ever meet: the way they turned up their noses at common nutrient paste and eyed alien foods with suspicion had been baffling at best. Then, within a few phoebs, she’d learned that it wasn’t that they were picky so much as it was that their tastes ranged towards the intense and potentially deadly. A brief and traumatic incident with Ulaz and what the paladins lovingly termed ‘chocolate’ had quickly caused her to reevaluate their tastes.

“I do not know,” Ulaz admits now, “but it has no warnings and seems to be a dessert of some kind.”

Shiro breathes out a laugh and reaches in to take a test scoop. He cants his head, thoughtful, as he considers the bite before swallowing and shrugging.

“I think it’s a kind of pudding?” he offers. “Seems safe.”

That’s all the reassurance they need before taking their own bites. It was creamy and smooth with a hint of something sweet. Hunk had nearly wept when he discovered Alteans lacked the taste receptors of humans, but with both of them beside her, Allura doesn’t think she minds. She has enough sweetness in her life already.


	3. a hard night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Major character death (fake), PTSD, nightmares

They all have their own ways of handling their scars. In the middle of the night, Shiro will slip out on silent feet to train against the gladiator until his legs quiver from exhaustion and his arms can no longer lift his bayard. Allura will hole up in the command center, monitoring the surveillance both within and without of Atlas — making sure no one attacks and no one disappears. There are nights where Shiro can’t stand the softness, the openness, of a bed and tucks himself into a corner of the room where he can keep an eye on both them and the door. A chair is his only concession to comfort those nights. Nightmares wake them all.

But tonight — tonight is a good night. It’s been a long day, filled from the first moment to the last. Ulaz’s shoulders ache with the strain of having been well-used, and the soft pads of his fingertips sport the tender rawness that comes before callouses have had a chance to form. The bricks they used and the tall beams were still rough, and he probably should have worn gloves. Still, it’s his favorite kind of fatigue: one born of rebuilding instead of fighting, hope instead of fear. The industrial showers of Atlas had washed away the dirt and dust of reconstructing from his fur, and Allura had insisted on braiding back his crest till only the very tip was loose to tickle the back of his neck.

Now, curled around Shiro with his ankles tangled in Allura’s, Ulaz has only enough energy to seep into the honey-warm contentment that has settled deep in his chest. Already, Allura’s chest rises and falls with easy long breaths, and Shiro gives him a sleepy smile from where his face is smushed into the pillow, half-hidden. Lifting a hand, Ulaz combs gently through his bangs, brushing them sideways out of Shiro’s eyes. His smile broadens and he closes his eyes, nestling deeper into the mattress and pillow. Taking a deep breath and letting it out easy, Ulaz does likewise and lets sleep slip blanket-like over him.

The grass is soft, flattening beneath his boots rather than crunching and breaking off. The fire hasn’t reached here — yet. Already the air has turned thick and grey, smoke a living thing that coils against his suit, forms feeble hands around his neck. If he peers hard enough, he can make out the shapes of the buildings, half-ruined, crumbling in silhouette through the smog. He can’t be that far away. He has to make it. Urging his limbs to move faster, he finds them heavy, sluggish.

Silence rings in his ears, the echoes of an explosion he wasn’t there to witness. There’s a kind of pressure deep in his skull that buzzes in the curves of his inner ears, and the edges of his vision are blurry, smudged like fingerprints on a visor. He trips on the long arms of the smoke still rising from the ashes of these strangers’ homes.

Kolivan is first. His eyes are still open, dulled and paled against the stark scarlet dried over his throat and jaw. White bone gleams through the ruin of his cheek. 

Ulaz’s stomach lurches but he stumbles on. There’s no saving his leader, but the cause has always been greater than one soldier, greater than any of them put together. It must go on. He must go on.

More bodies follow soon after, some he knows, some he only saw in passing. Some wear masks but others are bared and their faces look so young, too young, barely older than kits. He cannot stop to grieve for them. The time for helping the dead is long past. All he can do now is search for the living.

He doesn’t find them.

One by one, the broken bodies of the paladins appear through the rubble. Garish red streaks across the white of their armor. Hand prints pattern Hunk’s cuirass and finish at his cheek, too small to belong to his own hand. Beside him, Pidge is crumpled with her face hidden in the rocks. Lance is a little further off, facing away. Ulaz can’t bring himself to walk to the other side, to see the aftermath of the helmet fractured and dripping red just beside the paladin’s lean body.

He doesn’t find Keith at all, only the red bayard and the shards of a luxite blade. His hand flexes, curls tight on empty air instead of his own saber’s handle. Rare and terrible is the force that can shatter a Blade.

Swallowing, he forces himself to go on. The urgency of before has drained away, replaced with a heavy despair. Desperation is the only thing that keeps his steps from halting completely. He hasn’t seen Shiro or Allura yet. They could still — they might not be — he could —

He finds them together — and alive. Shiro’s grey eyes burn violet, quintessence a toxic blood crackling through him with the acrid taste of Haggar’s touch. His left hand wraps around the black bayard’s handle, curled over Allura’s fist. The tip of the blade juts scarlet and wrong from his back, a perfect line to Allura’s arm. His right hand is pressed to her belly, knuckles kissing her skin where the blade of his prosthesis has burnt through armor and undersuit. The scent of burning flesh clogs the air, chokes Ulaz where the smoke hadn’t succeeded.

Rigor alone seems to hold them in place, bodies using the last of their fight to make sure that this gruesome sacrifice is complete. When Allura turns to him, it is with jerky motions, mechanical. Her blue eyes burn.

“You,” she hisses. Blood trickles dark down her lip, sluggish. “You were supposed to stop this. This is your fault.”

He knows enough about Altean anatomy now to know where her injuries must fall, know the source of the thick black-burgundy blood staining her teeth. His mind, inconsiderate beast, turns to that with a kind of detachment, cataloguing the damage done to her as if he were still performing research in Haggar’s torture chambers. A punctured lung, internal bleeding, potential rupture of digestive organs — by rote, it notes them down as if in black-and-white text on a report.

“Why didn’t you do anything,” Allura snarls, voice rising in a hoarse call. “Why didn’t you save us?”

His feet are planted to the spot, staked into the grass as if they’ve grown roots. Even if he could move, he doesn’t know what he’d do. To touch her would be an insult, a disgrace. She’s right. Her words deserve more than his faltering comfort, his insufficient justification. He should have fought harder, should’ve done more, sacrificed himself before accepting the death of a thousand others. 

“You failed us,” Allura cries.

Beneath his feet, the planet shudders and groans, giving way at last. When he falls among the rubble, the darkness is almost a relief from the hatred in Allura’s eyes.

He wakes to the soft hush of Atlas’ air cycle kicking on. Their room smells of soft things, clean fabric, a hint of juniberries, but the smell of death clings to his fur and mind.

Swallowing, he unfolds his fists to lay flat over his belly and forces himself to breathe. Long, slow inhales and matching exhales expand his chest, press the warm fur up against his palms. His heart beats a frenetic rhythm in his neck, ragged with remembered fear and adrenaline.

He remembers that planet, that mission, that failure. He’d been so much younger then — in heart more than years — and still heady with the arrogance of the newly initiated. Back then, he’d still believed that their sacrifices meant that no one else had to sacrifice, that their deaths meant that no others had to die. And then Kijala Four had happened.

His fingers tighten, claws scraping through his fur, and he forces them to relax once more. He taught himself this practice back when he was working under Haggar. Any discrepancies, any odd behaviors, would jeopardize the mission, and so he could not afford to get up and walk the ship’s cold corridors or commandeer a training room until his body was too exhausted for dreams. Any comfort he sought, he found alone and in stillness. The witch’s eyes were ever-present and rarely inhibited by wall or closed door. Like a small creature, he holed up in the darkness and stilled his trembling limbs to keep away from the hunter’s gaze.

The mattress dips and there’s a rustle to his left. 

“‘Laz?” Allura mumbles, his name a mush of sound.

“Apologies,” he murmurs, “I did not mean to wake you.”

“Didn’t,” Allura says before a yawn splits her words, squeaking on the end. She lifts a hand to sweep back the great tide of white hair tumbling over her forehead. “Atlas thought you were in distress.”

Despite himself, Ulaz’s lips twist in displeasure. He should be used to it by now: Allura and Atlas are nearly a single whole, divisible only with effort and never completely, and though Shiro’s connection to Atlas is dwarfed next to his with the Black Lion, his time nestled in Allura’s soul left them bound. By extension, occasionally, Ulaz benefits from a strange sort of benevolence from the ship that offers him rooms at a preferred temperature or pathways opening up to speed his trips around the many levels. Still, he cannot quite accustom himself to the invasiveness of the ship’s sentience and omniscience.

“It is nothing,” Ulaz says, stiff.

Propping her cheek up on one fist, Allura eyes him in silence for a moment. There’s a keenness, a knowing, to her gaze that tiredness doesn’t abate.

“Was it a nightmare?” she asks.

He hums, reluctant to give much answer. It was a nightmare in the most basic sense, a terrible dream wrought of his own fears — but it was not only fantasy, was grounded in true failings, in sense memories that linger in his hands and ribcage. He doesn’t want to burden her with the phantasms his mind concocts or the terrible truths from which they’re born.

“Would touch make it worse?” Allura asks.

That gives him pause, and he hitches up his shoulders in an uncertain shrug.

“Not worse,” he offers.

It’s enough for Allura to give a firm nod and turn around to swing her legs off the edge of the bed. The motion seems to rouse Shiro, who lifts his head to squint blearily first at her and then at Ulaz.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice thick with sleep.

“Nothing,” Ulaz answers. “Just a bad dream.”

Shiro’s forehead scrunches up in a frown. It doesn’t ease as Allura steps around the foot of the bed to clamber up on the other side. Ulaz has to shift inwards to make room, and in doing so, realizes that something’s changed about their relative proportions. He twists around to look at Allura and finds her his same height, tall enough to curve around him from back to toes and reach over him to Shiro.

“How is that?” Allura asks.

Her voice comes out in a warm breath against his shoulder, and he can feel the steady thump of her heart against his back. Swallowing, he gives a little nod.

“Good,” he says.

She hums and nestles a little closer, tucking her feet between his ankles and her face into the curve of his neck. On his other side, Shiro watches the proceedings with a solemn, confused frown before it eases into a gentle smile. Smallest of their trio, he folds himself into Ulaz’s chest so that his head fits under his chin and his left arm curls around his side. If they stay like this, that arm’s bound to go numb, but Shiro shows no sign of discomfort, and Ulaz makes no move to dissuade him.

The weight of their bodies on either side seems to form a kind of gravity, a grounding force that tethers him here and now. He sinks into it, lets his lungs follow the steady rise and fall of their chests, lets his heart settle into a matching rhythm. The nightmares will return someday, will crawl back on broken, bloodied feet. For now, though, his princess and paladin will keep him safe.

**Author's Note:**

> pls come talk to me abt OT3s @ [tumblr](https://curiosity-killed.tumblr.com/)


End file.
